


All the Coffee Beans in the World

by hanekawa



Category: KAT-TUN (Band), Kamen Rider W | Masked Rider Double
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanekawa/pseuds/hanekawa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shoutarou’s office gets invaded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Coffee Beans in the World

  
.

.

The thing is, Shoutarou _loves_ his office. Especially how quiet it usually is, with nothing but him and stacks of old documents and dusty books. He knows he’s contradicting himself, since a quiet office means a lull in the business, but. But it’s not like all the detectives in the novels he read had a busy life. Or a busy business. In fact, most of them are actually quite broke themselves.

…But that’s beside the point.

With Philip usually holed up down in the basement, it’s easy to pretend he’s alone in the office. Even when Akiko inserts herself into the office, it’s also quite easy to pretend he’s still alone in the room once he gets used to Akiko’s presence and her particular brand of loudness.

Which is why he doesn’t appreciate the ruckus _this person_ causes just by being *here*, in Shoutarou’s office, where it’s supposed to be quiet.

“That’s why I ask,” Shoutarou says, trying not to flat out growl and be impolite, “why are you still here, despite having received back your stolen bag?”

The man blinks at him. “But I like it here. It’s so very quiet, for some reason.”

Shoutarou stares at the man before him in disbelief. “Quiet? You call this *quiet*? Kamenashi-kun, are you deaf or something? Can’t you hear all those ‘kyaa, kyaa’ shouts outside?! Even with all the doors and windows closed, I could still hear all those ‘kyaa, kyaa!’”

Kamenashi’s lips twitch.

Shoutarou glares at him. “You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged.” Kamenashi says. There’s an arch to the corner of his mouth, forming something that’s not enough to be a smirk, and yet can’t be called a smile either. Coupled with that faint mischievous light in his eyes, and the way he not-quite sprawls on one of the high chair in the office, he makes quite an unusual sight – one that Shoutarou’s not really know how to take, since. Since to Shoutarou’s eyes, it looks incomplete—like a half-finished picture. Like a remnant of aborted movement, like—

He has a feeling Kamenashi himself doesn’t really know either.

So Shoutarou chooses to deal with the things he knows how to handle instead. “Look, I appreciate you using our service, I really do. But I’ve found your missing possession, and therefore our business are finished and done with. And I would really, really appreciate it even more if you could bring your next business—which had nothing to do with detective-y work whatsoever—elsewhere!”

He’s being uncharacteristically rude, Shoutarou knows this, but this Idol unnerves him in ways that he just couldn’t—

It feels strangely similar to the first time he brought Philip home; all this uncertainty and being out of his elements, making one mistake after another without even knowing how to fix it, and most of all, feeling like he’s just a child who’s left behind by his parents for the very first time: he just doesn’t know what to do.

Kamenashi’s a year younger than him, but he makes Shoutarou feels like Shoutarou’s the one who’s younger by _ten freaking years._

“I’m not lying, though.” Kamenashi says. “Compared to the hotel where I’m staying at, this place is quieter. They,” he clears his throat, “do not seem to make as much ruckus here.” He smiles up at Shoutarou, “they seem to respect your place too much to make too much noise.”

Shoutarou doesn’t fail to notice the apologetic note in his voice, seemingly latching itself onto his words without him being aware of it.

“Geez, I wonder if my being a detective had anything to do with it.” Shoutarou rolls his eyes.

Kamenashi’s smile brightens for a second. “I don’t think that’s it, though.”

The thing about Idols is that they’re—fake. There’s always such a gap between their on-screen persona and their off-screen personality, much like Wakana-hime had showed. Most of celebrities Shoutarou has ever meet in his line of work also showed much of the same predicament as Wakana-hime, so excuse him for being wary of this ‘Kamenashi Kazuya’ and expecting the idol to start screaming his head off or something.

But so far, all Kamenashi does is sit where Shoutarou has gestured him to sit, accept the cup of freshly brewed coffee Shoutarou has offered him, and nothing else. He’s being unfailingly polite to a fault, and Shoutarou finds this…unacceptable. Shoutarou’s used to people walk all over him, used to people not taking him seriously most of the time, and therefore he’s often floored when someone decides to go all polite on him and. And treat him with, well, _respect._

Because despite how he always demands them all to treat him with at least _a little_ respect, he likes being their friend better, being someone whom they would not hesitate to turn to in times of trouble, and. And they—the people of Fuuto—seem to realize that.

But then again, Kamenashi Kazuya is not of Fuuto, isn’t he? He’s Tokyo born and bred, according to his data profile.

Shoutarou sighs. “Do me a favor.” Shoutarou says, flopping himself down on the stool opposite Kamenashi’s. “If you couldn’t do it, then don’t even think about it.”

Kamenashi raises an eyebrow at him. “And what, pray tell, are you talking about?”

“I’m just a lowly detective in a small city in Japan.” Shoutarou says, spreading his arms wide. “My opinion shouldn’t matter to a National celebrity like you. So I don’t understand why you’re holding yourself back in front of me.”

Kamenashi just keeps looking at him, his fingers holding on the cup delicately. He has bizarrely short fingers, Shoutarou distractedly notes. Maybe not short so much as indelicate, unlike the rest of him. Even with the table between them, Shoutarou still could faintly see the calluses on the pads of his fingers, could nearly feel the roughness of it under his own touch. It…oddly suits him.

“Perhaps,” Kamenashi says, his lips quirks up in that half-smile line again, “I want it to matter.”

Shoutarou blinks. “You know,” he folds his hands in front of him, “I have this strange feeling like you’re hitting on me.”

The half-smile turns into a smirk. “I could, if you want.” He winks.

Shoutarou scowls. “As if.”

It earns him a laugh; a short one, but it’s also one that’s infectious, one that makes him want to join in on the fun. So Shoutarou smiles, because he can’t *not*; especially since that laugh chases away the doubt, and unexpectedly completes the previously unfinished picture.

Ah, Shoutarou thinks, watching the way Kamenashi’s body unwinds itself, little by little. So the guy really has been restraining himself, after all.

“You remind me of one of my bandmates.” Kamenashi says, still smiling. “He also likes to act cool and be all badass in front, even though he’s really a bleeding heart inside.”

Shoutarou blinks. “I…really couldn’t decide if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

Again, Kamenashi’s lips quirk upward. “Maybe you should take it as the latter. You seem like an M to me.”

Shoutarou glares at him.

“I miss him.” Kamenashi shrugs, clutching his cup a little harder.

“You do know in this day and age, long distance communication is no longer an impossibility, right?” Shoutarou raises an eyebrow at him.

“It’s not that.” Kamenashi gives him another half-laugh. “It’s just that he’s a secret worrywart. And he’s got this superpower to detect my mood from just hearing my voice, so I don’t think it’s a good idea to give him a call. He might actually come here, and he’s busy enough as it is.”

This time, the smile he directs Shoutarou’s way is genuine enough to move Shoutarou, to make him think that if this is the way Kamenashi always smiles, no wonder girls (and guys) like him.

Shoutarou leans back on his chair, running a hand through his hair. “So basically,” he says, looking at the person before him, “you came here because you want a,” Shoutarou clears his throat, “a friend?”

Kamenashi lifts his cup; presses the edge of it to his mouth, making a show as if he’s drinking the sweet liquid inside.

Except Shoutarou knows he’s not. Shoutarou knows his own coffee-making skill is not that great, and he’s made sure to only fill half of the cup—in case of waste and all—and the angle at which Kamenashi holds the cup to his parted lips wouldn’t allow the liquid to escape the cup.

Shoutarou snorts. Fine, he’d give him point for effort.

“Try drinking that coffee for real,” Shoutarou says, “and I’ll give you a free pass to come over whenever you want.”

Kamenashi does.

Shoutarou watches the moment the too-sweet coffee touches Kamenashi’s taste buds, watches as Kamenashi’s eyes widen just the slightest bit, watches as Kamenashi’s lips quirk upwards again in that half-smile, half-laugh line. He also watches as Kamenashi empties the cup in a gulp without even showing a grimace.

Shoutarou thinks his respect for the guy has just gone up a notch.

“How was it?” Shoutarou asks, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

Kamenashi’s face doesn’t change. He even takes pain to sweep his lips with his tongue, despite (or maybe because of) the remaining aftertaste of the coffee that must have lingered on his lips.

“Well,” Kamenashi says, “I certainly have had worse.”

Shoutarou laughs. “Real polite, aren’t you?” Shoutarou says, sprawling further into his seat, smiling at Kamenashi. “I think I like you already.”

The smile Kamenashi gives him in return is nothing short of blinding.

.

.

.


End file.
